Death and Taxes
by Queens Tart
Summary: Death and taxes, life's two great certainties for all, no?... The Dark Lord cursed and powerless at the supposed mercy of Harry Potter. Events are about to take a turn, but for the better or worst… and for whom? HPLV
1. Chapter 1

Death and Taxes  
---  
Life's Two Great Certainties  
---

**Rating:** Teen (currently) for language and I guess some war-ry type situations in this chapter  
**Warnings:** Intended HP/LV (that means slashy goodness : P)  
**Disclaimer: **Sadly for me, all known characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling  
**Beta:** Myself -beams-

* * *

"You've learnt from our last encounter, little boy," the tall robed man snarled as he side-stepped slowly, one leg crossing over the other, mirroring the boy opposite him. "But then again you're not really 'little' anymore…" 

Harry growled as the speaker of these words slowly licked his non-existent lips, his gaze still fixed with the red orbs sunk into that skeletally white face. Both men circled each other like predators, both sporting several injuries and ailments from their previous battles and both their wands having been sufficiently dealt with by both parties to ensure the continuation of this war.

"Tired, old man?" Harry retorted as he noted Voldemort's slight limp, probably induced by Harry's earlier 'bone crushing' hex.

The constant onslaught of dark curses and spells had kept Harry dodging and fighting with the last of his strength, but he was not about to let his arch rival know that; and Harry had retaliated with equally efficient hexes and shields. Their ripped cloaks discarded and their arms bare in the chilled night air, the two fought relentlessly.

The man opposite him threw a well aimed curse, allowing Harry mere moments to counter act; his weak '_protego_' barely reflecting the spell as he was thrown backwards, skidding to a halt on his back in the blood and mud that had accumulated on the battle field around them.

Individual wars raged around the two wizards as Voldemort leisurely sauntered up to the spluttering Harry before him as if people weren't being murdered and tortured meagre inches away. Harry just glimpsed a flash of bright red hair in the midst, back-to-back with a smaller brown haired girl before the tall, pale man cloaked in a thin, dark material towered above him blocking his view. Ron and Hermione were still alive, but the light side was falling- any idiot could tell. Harry wished for his friend's safety as Voldemort stood still, stopping where Harry's own feet rested on the grass tussocks.

Harry glanced around, slightly panicked, as the dark lord made no further move.

---

Ron had succeeded in disarming and stunning his own charge and had whipped around to Hermione's side to finish off the other advancing deatheater. With two on one, the rather short, masked figure soon fell with a bloodied gash just below his ribs; his facade slipping to reveal a rat-like countenance with protruding, yellowed teeth. Ron scrunched up his face in disgust,

"Pettigrew!"

The mousey-haired girl, however, risked a glance at the fatal battle she knew would be taking place beside her. But her shock was evident at what she saw. Her inquisitive yet frightened gaze meeting with Harry's as he appeared to survey the scene around him, a dark figure positioned menacingly just in front of him. The figure leant closer to her friend as if whispering something, then the sharp features of the face she had never seen yet heard so much about turned to her, the red eyes gleaming. Hermione couldn't help but let a gasp escape her cracked lips.

"Maybe we should take this somewhere a little more… private, eh Potter?" He-who-must-not-be-named almost purred into Harry's right ear, before shifting his gaze to follow Harry's.

Harry started as breath tickled his earlobe.

"Just keep my friends out of this." Harry spat back, his wand eventually levelled at Voldemort's chest. Being so close, Voldemort simply snatched the wand from the boy and flung it uncaringly over his shoulder. Harry watched, terrified, as it disappeared from view. Harry cursed under his breath.

"As you wish."

If Harry and the rest of the observing 'warriors' had been startled before, it was nothing to Harry's reaction as Voldemort simply turned and swept away from Harry to his original stance in the fight. But instead of brandishing his wand ready to duel, Voldemort merely twisted on the spot once more and was gone with the sweeping of his black robes. A small object glinting as it fell to the grassy mound glowing slightly, where, a few seconds ago, the dark lord had been standing.

The rest of the battle seemed oblivious to his disappearance their individual battles still raging on, but Hermione had seen what had just transpired, and, tugging on the sleeve of Ron's tattered shirt, had dragged the boy away from his petty jibes at the silent and presumed-unconscious men strewn before him to Harry's side.

"Harry, oh my, what happened?" Hermione continued to babble senselessly despite the situation, but Harry had barely heard the first two words she'd uttered.

Harry didn't speak, but pushed Hermione's hands from his shoulders, standing of his own accord. Ron scanned the surrounding area, but the 'Order of the Phoenix' were still engrossed in their crusades, outnumbered almost three to one. Harry ran toward the object still resting among the crushed grass stems, Hermione following nervously in his wake and Ron cautiously still glancing around for an impending attack. Harry reached down, but drew back suddenly as if burnt, staring at the lithe glowing object in fascination. A small silver dagger encrusted with a single line of pale green gems and an ornate hilt lay haphazard in the grass.

"What is it?" Hermione murmured, clinging tightly to her boyfriend's arm. She scoped once more for Harry's shoulder as he crouched on his haunches. Harry lifted the index finger of his right hand and traced the glittering hilt- only realising his mistake too late. The familiar sensation of a port key tugged at his navel as the trio were whisked off to a place far different from the battle field they had vanished from. Nobody saw them go.

---

Harry's knees buckled beneath him as he fell limply on his side, quashing the air from his lungs, as Ron landed with a thump by his feet. Hermione was the only teenager left standing, readily surveying their new surroundings. The young girl inhaled sharply as she caught sight of a dark figure, their back turned, the one who had brought them to this place. She edged away slowly. Ron followed suit, scampering on all fours. Harry remained still, his arms supporting him where he lay.

The man spun abruptly, the shock only apparent on his face for a split second as he glared at his two 'uninvited guests' before his visage relaxed once again into an indifferent mask.

"Harry…" The man drawled as he advanced towards the unarmed boy, a smirk befalling his snake-like features.

"Stop!" A male voice echoed through the crisp air. Voldemort glanced up just in time to jolt his head to the side in haste to avoid a shot of bright red light. He growled at the second year spell, returning the favour with a much deeper shaded curse of his own.

Voldemort's left boot collided with Harry's collar bone as Harry attempted to stand, almost choking him,

"Leave him!" Harry rasped, his words only to be endorsed by a much shriller plea- not Hermione as well?

"Leave him alone!"

"Oh," Voldemort focused his pitiless scarlet eyes on Hermione, "does the little girl want to play too?"

It wasn't a question. The disembodied scream that raked through Harry silenced all other sounds as Hermione's body plunged to the ground, writhing simultaneously. The startled objection from Ron was cut short as he was immobilised with yet another flick of Voldemort's wand. Those slit-pupilled eyes once again resumed their gaze on Harry's as the man spoke and Hermione's screams faded into staggered gasps, his voice low and menacing.

"Look-ie, the kiddies want to play with the big boys," he chuckled uncharacteristically, weaving his wand between the spidery fingers of his left hand, "I say we let them." He steadied his wand between his index and middle finger of the other.

"No!" Harry yelled hoarsely, still aware of Hermione's shuddering breaths, "This is between you and me!"

"Such noble last words Potter," Voldemort sneered raising his wand, a manic glee in his eyes, "Avada ke-"

A bolt of blue light, like electricity, shot into the back of Voldemort's bald head, leaving a dull pattern resembling dust particles etched into the darkness. The spell sent him reeling forward, the boot previously resting on the ground crashing just above Harry's head and the other following shortly, allowing Harry to clamour for air to feed his parched lungs.

Scrambling upright Harry stared in bewilderment at the crippled figure of Lord Voldemort clutching at his head in agony.

"What the fuck did you do?" Harry whipped around glaring daggers at the boy he knew to have cast the curse; the teen's wand still raised as if in a trance. But, the boy retaliated just as quickly, snapping back to reality.

"I saved your bloody life, mate!" Ron answered as if shocked that Harry would ask such an imprudent question.

The crouched figure's breathing was laboured and came in short puffs visible in the cool night. Hermione looked on dumb-struck, still in her position from the cruciatus curse.

"This shouldn't be happening," Harry muttered, pacing backwards and forwards. Harry had hit the man a million times over with the second unforgivable curse, and never had it affected the dark lord as bad as what was currently taking place.

"What's up old man? Had too much?" Harry jibed, but the words lost their customary venom at the sight of the whimpering form.

From the corner of his eye Harry saw Ron kneel by his girlfriend's side and hoist her up to be supported by his shoulder.

"Just finish him Harry." Ron said coldly, giving a distasteful glare in the direction of the straining outline, "I need to take Hermione back."

A muffled scream came from the figure face down in the dirt, robes ripped and muddied. With one last glance Ron apparated back to the battle field with the collapsed Hermione hanging from his arm.

Harry returned his own gaze to Voldemort. Why didn't Ron just tell him what spell he cast to cause so much pain to the single most powerful and feared wizard of the age?

Stunned out of his reverie by a final scream, the form of Lord Voldemort reeled over onto his back, his eyes rolled back in his head. Forgetting all precautions Harry ran over to the body, bending down and searching for a pulse. He found what he was looking for, but was it what he wanted to find?

---

**A/N** Kay, this is my first ever fanfic that I've published so… er… yeh, just thought you ought to know.

Please read and review, I'm not expecting much as a new author here, but, you know, one can hope ; )

I really wanted to release this before 'Deathly Hallows' so have been working extra hard on it. Not to mention the fact that this was rewritten about **5** times! No kidding!! It just wouldn't work; Ron and Hermione weren't even meant to _be_ in this chapter. Ah well, life goes on. The next chapter will be out soon

Feel lucky people, I was gonna leave this at the first divider after the portkey bit, but I didn't think it was long enough...


	2. Chapter 2

Death and Taxes  
---  
Life's Two Great Certainties  
-2-

**Rating:** Teen (currently)  
**Warnings:** Intended HP/LV (that means slashy goodness : P)  
**Disclaimer:** Everything Harry Potter related belongs to J.K. Rowling. You know, that women who wrote all those books… blondey hair… looks like she's constantly on drugs… it's the eyes… ah, you must know her.. no? Ah well…  
**Beta:** Myself (which is why there are probably so many mistakes)

Obviously this is now major(!!!!) AU and I'm finding it hard to keep away from the events in the final Potter book, now knowing what happens and all the leads and such and trying to twist it into this fanfic. Sigh, I wish I'd never read it, then I could live in blissful ignorance :P Still managed to read it in a day though :)

I don't really like how this chapter came out, there was meant to be so much more in it, but I have to pack so it's kinda short and pointless. Please forgive me. I'll have the next one out as soon as I come back.

* * *

Harry felt the steady pulsating thrash of a heartbeat in Voldemort's thin, pale wrist, but what now? _Well, wasn't it obvious_, that strange reoccurring voice remarked in Harry's mind,_ he must die_. That was the plan, wasn't it? That was what Ron's final words had been to him before he Disapparated? But he couldn't do that, kill another human being. Not after all the pain that had been caused with that one single curse... Not pain by the curse, pain by him! He had killed all those people. He deserved this fate brought upon him. Harry had never known his parents because of this man lying before him, seemingly unconscious. But Harry wasn't a killer, he had always sought never to sink as low as the pitiful creature before him, snake like face almost glowing in the eerie moonlight and shadows cast by the surrounding trees. 

The internal struggle continued to rage, far fiercer than any battle on that faraway field where nobody had noticed his, Hermione and Ron's absence. Harry released the bone-like wrist he realised he had still been holding, moving his hand to the man's chest to search again for that familiar pounding that signified life through the monster's robes. Maybe he had been mistaken? Harry's eyes flickered once again to Voldemort's face and he started with a gasp. Voldemort was _actually_ glowing! His deathly pale skin illuminated by that same blue-ish light that had emitted from Ron's wand when he sent Voldemort staggering in waves of evident, unbearable pain.

Then, before Harry's eyes, Voldemort's face began to twist and contort, the features becoming almost blurred as they shifted. And Harry noticed too, Voldemort's body changing slightly through the rips and seams of his tattered robes. He wasn't as skeletally thin and his skin wasn't as ghostly white as it had been mere moments ago. Risking a glance back at the strange visage of the man writhing once again on the dry soil underfoot, Harry saw hair sprouting from his enemies head, dark and matted in sweat and the two slitted nostrils had transformed into a thin nose. Then it dawned on him, this was the infamous face of Tom Riddle, though quite evidently more aged than the sixteen-year-old figure Harry had seen in the chamber of secrets- maybe in its thirties, at a stretch forties?

Harry stared at the once-again limp body, still crouched on his haunches, surveying the form from a good two metres away. Why…? Was all Harry could conjure in his blank mind. Why had the unconscious form of Lord Voldemort suddenly transformed into, what appeared to be a much younger, more human, version of himself, seemingly before his rebirth. Why had Ron cast that spell unknown to Harry? And why had it affected this outwardly invincible wizard so?

In his daze, Harry had slumped back on the packed earth to sit with his legs crossed, staring at the palms of his hands resting neatly in his lap. However, he was jolted from his musings when a groan broke the silence. The outline before him was stirring.

Harry crept forward on his hands and knees, discarding the sharp rocks and twigs lying strewn on the ground, and peered at the face of what had been Lord Voldemort, his arch nemesis-_ still_ his arch nemesis despite appearances.

---

The elder Tom Riddle's eyes flickered open, and he couldn't hide his panic with which his dulled brown eyes betrayed him, at the sight of the face of Harry Potter glaring down at him. He daren't move further than adjusting his fingers around the wand clutched tightly in his hand, but the wooden hilt was not there. This was the end. Potter had him. A flash of red light, and he knew that he had slipped from consciousness once more.

---

Harry didn't recoil as Riddle's eyes opened and the pupils appeared to dilate in fear and with instinct born only through his training as a seeker, he'd grabbed Voldemort's wand from his right hand and performed a silent stunning spell straight at the bridge of Riddle's nose.

Now what was he to do? If his instinctual reaction had told him anything, it had reinforced the fact that he was not a murderer. He couldn't take another's life, no matter how much that person had hurt him.

For the first time since his arrival in this strange clearing, Harry looked around him, regarding his surroundings with curiosity despite the once again unconscious man lying to the side of his knees. The towering silhouettes of slender, bowed trees spread emaciated around them, they didn't seem enough to obscure the inevitable duel from view. The trees formed an almost perfect ring around the hard packed soil, few weeds sprouting, but where little mounds of earth were set, giving one the appearance of a desecrated graveyard. A glint of silver in the moonlight caught Harry's eye atop one of these mounds, the unsettled earth around the object slightly flattened where he knew him and Ron had landed earlier on that night, courtesy of the dagger portkey.

Facing back towards the blank face, Harry's mind was set. He hoisted the man up and over his shoulder, only for his legs to buckle under the weight as he attempted to stand, the maladies of his injuries resurfacing and the pains from the fight becoming apparent. He hadn't comprehended how much he had blocked out in his anguish over his current situation. The flaccid body crashed back to the ground with a resounding thud. Harry settled to simply imitating Ron in his actions with Hermione before his disappirition, tugging the elder man's arm over and round his neck, and supporting the dead weight with his shoulder. Spinning on the spot, Harry felt the normal compression as if being forced through a constricted tube and the two were swallowed in darkness.

---

Harry stumbled heavily as he arrived at his destination and only just managed to lower the unconscious from of Tom Riddle into a wooden chair before collapsing himself into a similar chair around the small oak kitchen table.

The house of number 72, Haden Drive, typically roomier on the inside than it appeared from the outside, was the final house at the end of a narrow gravelled road. Few cars ventured up that far, but even if they did, to the muggle eye, the old decrepit house looked anything but habitable. With protection charms enforced by the very order and ministry themselves, the house was unplottable and held all manor of curses to prevent intrusion, all this besides the temperamental fidelus charm- to which Harry had been resigned to using. Even to wizards the house may have seemed undesirable, several windows boarded up and the brickwork deteriorated with rot in numerous places. But Harry Potter considered this place much more of a home than any pristine house in Privet Drive. The interior of the house was dissimilar to many on the same stretch of road, accepting the addition of another floor and minor extensions to several rooms making them bigger, but not altering the outside in any noticeable way.

The kitchen in which the famous Harry Potter had subsided and Riddle's body now lay slumped ungainly over a chair was at the front of the property. The small window overlooking the declining driveway, which in turn, led onto the stone strewn road of Haden Drive, but through which, that same road could not be seen.

After recuperating his thoughts, Harry stood from his chair and edged closer to the man that now resided in his kitchen. The man's breathing was shallow and his chest heaved in an unnatural rhythm. With recovered strength, Harry lifted the man once more across his shoulders; though this time the weight spread more evenly across his shoulder blades and back, and heaved him up the rickety set of stairs just beyond the kitchen door. With the lack of a wand to light his path, Harry stumbled, only regaining his balance after clutching to the unsteady hand rail and shifting Riddle more to the centre behind his neck.

Once, Harry had reached the first floor landing, he headed in the direction of one of the various spare rooms that the house enclosed. There, he dumped Riddle unceremoniously on the thick quilted bed, lifting his legs up to join the rest of his body. Preparing himself for what was about to occur, Harry muttered, almost inaudibly,

"_Ennervate_"

The motionless body didn't stir. Harry spoke the incoherent spell again, slightly louder this time, but still nothing. Thumping the edge of the bed with his fist, Harry watched as dust floated into the surrounding air. That spell. What had Ron done?

But still, what was he hoping to achieve in waking the man? Nothing. There was nothing. Harry had no idea what he was even doing anymore. What had compelled him to lug the Dark Lord, however unconscious, back to _his _house? He should have just taken him to Dumbledore… but what would the wizard think of him? So much training and effort, and when it finally came down to it, he, Harry, had failed. He had failed everyone. They had all been counting on him to rid the world of the Dark. And he had convinced himself he could do it, that he would do it. That he was strong enough. But once again Voldemort had got the better of him. Just like that night so many years ago at the ministry. Did Voldemort know he was too weak? Was this some sort of scheme? Planned for eternity? With Ron and…

A deep breath, his brain was most definitely working over time. A planned scheme of this magnitude was beyond even Voldemort… wasn't it?

Then suddenly, the muddle of thoughts still fighting for the zigzagging spotlight within his very own head became single-track. Everything grinded to a halt; all clashings of feelings, memories, morals. The renewed spark of spotlight had found its mark…

He had to get back to the field.

But as quickly as the thought struck him the heaving motions of turmoil within him began again, the individual thoughts charging once again across his consciousness.

He had to see for himself what had happened, he needed to tell Dumbledore of these strange happenings, he would know what to do, he always did. And then there was Ron… and Hermione and Ginny, Luna… Sirius, Remus, the Weasley congregate of brave fighters… he needed to know if they were okay… if they were alive, if they had pulled through as they had so many times before...

And then, the cold realisation hit him, like an anvil on his spirit dropped from a great height.

He was trapped! He didn't even know where the battle field was. Nobody knew except Dumbledore and supposedly the prone body before him. All the persons whom Harry knew of the light had been port keyed, or in exceptional cases apparated by a select group of about 3 individuals. It was apparently safer that way. But now he couldn't return. Why hadn't he thought about this before foolishly letting his damn 'saving people thing'- as dubbed in the fourth year of the golden trio- control him once again? And for what? For whom?

A final emotional and anger-fueled kick to the bedpost and Harry marched distractedly from the room, leaving Riddle to remain there in his comatose state.

He couldn't sleep, not now. He needed news, some inkling of something from somebody, for better or worst.

Tired and irritable, through aching limbs and stinging wounds, Harry paced the lounge room for a long while after that as the hours grew later into the dawn and the pinkish hue of a newborn sun could be seen to the left of the house through the glass French doors. Questions poured across his muddled mind and he was drained by the confusion he faced. They played over like a broken record player, always ending in the same conclusion: what had become of everyone, had the dark conquered, or had they fallen with their leader? Did they know their leader had fallen? The failure that he was, would anyone really care for his disappearance…? Maybe it was best this way. Maybe he deserved this fate…

For all his piteous attempts, fatigue soon forced Harry to collapse at the foot of an overbearing armchair. Though it was destined to be a fitful sleep, full of nightmares and outlandish dreams.

---

A/N OMG!!! I'm distraught over the outcome of book 7!!!!! Not over all the crappy order of the phoenix members, but my Voldie!!!!!! And Bella! Noooooo!! I seriously didn't think I was gonna continue with this story, but you're reviews were seriously encouraging. Thankyou mucho! Oh, and I really don't appreciate spoilers being emailed to me! However many warnings, you're lucky I didn't take it too seriously, others might! A simple flame or 'I guess it's an alright story' would suffice. Er, yeh, I think I'm done abusing exclamation marks. The next chapter won't be out for while. I'm going on holiday for two weeks. Also the first chapter of another planned fic might be out before chapter 3, so keep your eyes peeled! 


	3. Chapter 3

Death and Taxes  
---  
Life's Two Great Certainties  
-3-

**Rating:** Teen (currently)  
**Warnings:** Intended HP/LV (that means slashy goodness : P)  
**Disclaimer:** Everything Harry Potter related belongs to J.K. Rowling unfortunately. I'm afraid our views differ slightly when it comes to matters concerning the boy who lived and the dark lord.  
**Beta:** Myself (which is why there are probably so many mistakes)

**A/N** Thankyou so much everyone for the reviews: _trory4 eva-logan zoey 4 eva, Uniasu, Gabzies _(who reviewed twice, mucho love)_, Kaomalunna _(your penname's awesome)_, BlckenedNightshade _(I always like to know when I've made a mistake so thanks again), and finally _Amylion_. This was meant to be out a long time ago, but I was hanging on till I got my laptop. Big mistake. The darn thing won't be arriving till like aaages.

* * *

The gentle gurgling and rattling of the water pipes of number 72 Haden Drive could be heard easing their way through the thick walls of the building as the rising sun broke through the early morning cloud. Eventually reaching a mediocre sized bedroom on the third floor, they circled the expanse of one wallpaper-covered wall before moving to the lower levels.

In the bedroom directly below this first lay a motionless figure haphazardly upon a thick quilt that, in turn, was dragged neatly over an old wooden bed. Four other pieces of furniture adorned the simple guest room. To the left of the bed, stood a small, single-drawer, bedside table with an old lamp masked in dust and no bulb within its canvas casing upon it; on the opposite wall, stood a domineering wardrobe that just scraped the ceiling between two oak beams and a rickety wooden chair was pushed up to the corner of the room furthest from the doorway. The final embellishment took the form of an antique writing desk, large enough to govern the entire stretch of wall behind the archway that should have held home for a door- however, none was present.

A groan filled the silence in the wake of the disappearing rumbling of water as the stature upon the aforementioned bed began to stir.

Voldemort rolled onto his side, one arm thrown over the edge of the bed while the other moved to massage his straining temples. Another groan of pain was forced from his thin lips as his fore-finger and thumb shifted in circles around the throbbing pain in his brow. Still unwilling to open his eyes against the harsh light he could sense through his eyelids, he turned back to his previous position on his back and dropped his arm to his side.

Eventually summoning the energy to pull himself into a sitting position he was overcome with a rush of memories that forced him to lie back when a jolt of pain swept through his head once more scanning from the back of his skull to his eyes which consecutively burst open as he remembered all that had transpired. Potter, the final battle, curses, death, Potter, the portkey dagger, the _golden_ trio, Harry, the chosen one about to serve his fate, a blinding flash, his head… oh, his head, the pain, worse than any cruciatus, worse than even being ripped from his body that fateful night… then nothing… darkness… till now.

Spinning his body round so his boot clad feet rested on the solid floor, he hauled himself up once again, this time resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands to dull the ache. Absentmindedly, his fingers resumed their rubbing of his forehead, then to sweep back to brush over his scalp.

Raising his head slightly to gaze up at the far wall, he paused. He ran his hand back across his head, feeling a tingling sensation on his palm as he did so.

_Was that…? Hair!_

He hadn't had hair for 20 odd years. And this wasn't downy or in half substantial tufts placed sporadically like new grown hair ought to be, but… a full head of hair. Admittedly it was short, maybe and inch in length, maximum.

Once again, he moved his hand over his new-found head of hair to the centre, forcefully grabbing a few locks and pulling them before his eyes, as if examining them. They were dark in colour, possibly black, however it turned out quite hard to study them from such a close distance and his head began to throb once more before he let his eyes fall shut and his hand relax back to resting on his knee.

Why was _hair_ growing on _his_ head? The last time he'd looked in a mirror, admittedly days, weeks, maybe months, ago, he had had the same bald scalp and snake-like appearance as he had since his rebirth many years ago. He had always considered changing the reptilian visage to something, anything, more human, but the essence of fear it inspired in his followers was just too great for him to simply drop it.

Batting off the sudden manifestation of hair as if it were nothing important he took his time to look around the surroundings which he had earlier realised to be foreign. Simple, but by no means clean, the room was of average size and festooned with dark oak style furniture. In front and to the left of his direct line of vision was an open doorway, to which, either the door abnormally swung outward or there simply wasn't one to speak of… where was he?

The acknowledgement of these new surroundings and the miraculous occurrence of hair had done nothing but feed is natural and intense curiosity and he strived to find out how and why he was where he was. He remembered nothing after he had supposedly become unconscious, and now… Voldemort hated not knowing _anything_, no matter what, and this was trying what little patience he had and whatever he was able to hold in his current state.

Summoning the strength to stand he staggered across the worn and dusted rug by the bed, his boots feeling a lot heavier than they had on the battle field, and supporting himself on the vast desk opposite his previous position he ran a hand restlessly through his hair- the sensation of the tresses parting under his fingertips a strangely welcomed memory. His leg twinged with every drunken step he took, as though a young child had placed the segments of bone together in the way they would a new jigsaw. Mashing them in a disarrayed pattern, whether they fit there or not. However, he could not quite remember why… Potter, it always came down to the golden-boy, the boy-who-lived, the chosen one. That boy had sent a bone-crushing hex at him in the duel, a feeble attempt to cripple him, but the dire healing charm, it had to be said, he had used to hastily repair the damage had not been much better.

Driven by his curiosity, he shook his head to clear it and rubbed at his eyes willing the drugged feeling he'd acquired to leave him, and with somewhat renewed vigilance Voldemort made his way out onto what he assumed to be a landing.

Voldemort worked his way steadily down the creaking set of stairs, holding onto the banister with a vice-like grip as he swayed from step to step and, eventually reaching the bottom rung, was glad when he placed his foot on much firmer ground. Aimlessly wondering towards a door, all purpose dissipated from his descent and the ridiculously strenuous amount of energy he used to keep himself upright, he peered round the square shaped hallway.

There was no 'front' door to speak of through which to get to the outside of the building as was usual in a normal house, and the effect was strangely striking. The lack of one simple, expected opening cast an almost eerie presence, the single blank wall of the four surrounding him catching his attention. Moving closer, and away from his original destination, he could pick out the faint, vertical outlines in the smooth plaster work that would have been the supports of the doorway and running his thin pale fingers along the wall he felt dips and ridges between the two posts as if the door had merely been smothered in pinkish plaster. Turning back around, the hallway was quite large and held the entire length of the rising stairs so he was able to see the landing above through the gaps in the banister. It seemed barren with no furniture and the only breaks in the expanse of wallpaper and unmarked plaster were several doors all shut tight as if to keep the rest of the residence hidden. All except one.

One of the six or so doors stood ajar, a thin line of bright light skimming the floor and fading into the darkness just ahead of him. Voldemort crept closer, the new scenery and the possibility of another in this strange house keeping him on edge. It was then that he grappled for his wand in his robe pocket, and it was then that memories of the last time he had awoken swept through him causing him to curse under his breath. He hadn't had it in his hand when he had come round, lying in that dirt clearing… Potter had his wand.

Spurred on by rage at the mere thought of another with his wand, Voldemort disregarded all tentativeness, marched the rest of the way to the door and rammed it open with such force that the panels appeared to rattle in their frames. The thud of contact between door and stone wall was so loud it seemed to echo throughout the hallway he had just stepped from and he was sure that whoever was in this house would, by now if they hadn't already, be aware of his fully-conscious presence.

He stopped just short of entering the room in his dramatic fashion with a jolt and looked around at yet another peculiar room belonging to this house. It was particularly small and the walls seemed curved in their appearance with no visible corners. Across from him was a large, empty fireplace tall enough for he himself to stand upright in. It was the sole adornment and it seemed at fault in the cramped space, its ornate carvings, sculptured stone and ceramic styling wouldn't seem out of fashion in a vast banquet hall. The room in itself was different to any other he had seen so far (admittedly only two, three if you count the landing). The walls were of coarse stone and there was only one gap in the entire span of rock, through which the previous white light that had caught his attention was issuing.

Making his way through the surprisingly thin archway, he eventually found himself in a room he could put a name to. He had arrived in the kitchen of the residence. Unlike the bedroom he had awoken in, this was clean and gleaming, illuminated by a single long strip light that flickered sporadically. Pushed over to one wall was a small semi-circular table, and two old wooden chairs, all slightly distressed looking. Old-fashioned, burgundy granite work-tops ran from Voldemort's right, following the three walls round till they came to an abrupt end opposite. The cabinets were a speckled wood and the floor miss-matched, yet even, stone flags. It was in the kitchen that he noticed the only other window he'd seen since the bedroom. The window was placed in the middle of the second line of counters, contrary to the table and chairs and a further closed door, which most likely led back into the hallway.

Dawn was just breaking outside, the sun's first rays spilling harsh and bright from between the scattered cloud. The beams of light cast eerie reflections against the window and Voldemort doubled back as he caught a glimpse of himself when he moved further into the culinary area.

The new found hair on his head was not the only change. His whole visage was altered. He ran his fingers over the pale, though not white like it once was, skin of his face, thumbing and caressing every feature. The flat nose he had acquired, the slits for nostrils, were now replaced with a long nose. Eyebrows had once again found a place above his eyes where before the area was scarce and his eyes, a dull brown, the only memory of those cat pupil eyes the flecks of claret in the iris.

His reptilian form hadn't shown any tell-tale signs of age, but his face now looked at least 35, maybe 40. Which stood to reason as he was about middle aged by wizarding standards…

_Stood to reason?_ What was he thinking! There was _no_ reason why this should have happened, why he should revert to a human facade _overnight_, or however long he had been unconscious. There was no reason, no explanation, no logical way of even thinking about this. He was in a strange house, with no idea where he was, an abnormal appearance and no wand.

A smashing clatter resounded through the room as Voldemort whipped around away from the window and his daunting reflection, his arm flinging around with him, skimming the work surface and colliding with something glass. The victimised object fell forward and slid over the edge of the counter before falling to the ground causing the callous noise. Growling Riddle bent down to retrieve the item, noticing that it was a picture frame he picked it up by the velvet covered stand protruding from the back. Glass was strewn around the floor, but he couldn't care less as he flipped the frame in one long-fingered hand. Brushing off the remaining shards and dust with the other his eyes roamed over the photo within, just able to make it out through the smears of blood that dropped quickly and easily from the cuts on his fingers.

The photo was muggle and therefore quite still. It held several red-heads, all with varying degrees of smiles plastered across their freckled faces, and one bushy-haired brunette hand in hand with the tallest flame haired boy. There was only one other girl, her hair equally red as the boys and Riddle felt that he recognised her. Like a nagging sensation at the back of his brain telling him he knew her, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it…

Red hair… lots of children… Lucius had said something about… _the Weasleys_.

This was a picture of the Weasleys… a muggle picture… with some brown-haired girl…

And this house wasn't like anything he had heard described belonging to the infamous blood traitor family, it didn't make sense. A growl of frustration and the frame was skidding back across the work space where it bounced off the tiled wall back to the sender.

Suddenly a thud reverberated through the floor, sending vibrations up the wood of the door ahead and to his right. Placing a hand atop the sliding photo Voldemort froze. Alert to any further movement from within the next room.

Light footfalls could be heard distancing themselves from the door and then returning. All the while Riddle standing poised with his pale hand still resting on the broken frame in the middle of the section of work tops.

Willing his black robes to be silent, he moved stealthily forward in the direction through which the footsteps were pacing, his own boots barely making a sound as he crossed the stone flags- he would soon know the mysterious identity of the owner of this strange house.

Moving closer to the closed door with each cautious step, he reached with his right hand for the knob of the door, before realising… there wasn't one. Just a panel of stained chrome to one side. Then, before he had a chance to react, the door sprung open towards him, nearly knocking him from his partially stable feet. He stumbled back, glaring daggers at where the person who had opened the door would stand in just a few seconds…

He couldn't hide the shock on his transformed features as _Harry Potter _made his way into the room, laden with an unhealthily hefty tome.

---

Harry had had a very unpleasant morning, well dawn really, and he could only say that his mood had degenerated even more as the rest of the world began to awaken.

He had woken up at very nearly the middle of the night, after only _maximum_ 2 hours fitful sleep. He felt like, as soon as he had managed to settle his mind and drift off to sleep that he had awoken to the harsh noise of banging vibrating through the floorboards from the room below him as though someone were throwing something heavy around. It did not take him long for realisation of the source to be comprehended in his mind- _He_ had awoken and Harry was in no way going to fall back to sleep while that monster prowled around his house.

With an exaggerated sigh, Potter untangled himself from the mess of sheets that lined his bed and pulled himself into an upright position, his back against the quilted, burgundy head board. A further exhalation of air and he was on his feet, walking across his bedroom to the door opposite. Opening it slightly, he stilled, listening for the unsteady beats that had reverberated around the walls not so long ago. All was silent, the box-like landing eerily tranquil. Taking the chance to change into something a little more suitable than the long pyjama pants he had previously been wearing, he went in search of a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He found what he was looking for on the window seat of the alcove and, tugging the brown sweater over his head and making a swipe at the bedside table for Voldemort's wand where he'd left it the night before, he departed from his room.

Harry crept out and down the narrow set of stairs, which had only recently transitioned from being an ungainly ladder. Sneaking around his own house, now that was bad, thought Harry as he quickened his stride across the much wider stretch of oak panels that made up the first-floor landing towards a rectangular archway in the wall. The room within was dark and a pale slip of the moonlit sky could be seen through the partly drawn curtains that hung around the single window in the room. The silvery light laid sight to a figure lying stiffly on an old bed to which Harry approached cautiously. If he was still asleep then…

Just a few feet away from the edge of the bed, Harry stopped suddenly, staring in horror as the prone from began to thrash wildly. A heavy thud sending shivers through the uneven floor boards with every contact of limb and mattress, head and bed post. Harry made a start to move forward, but faltered, unsure of what to do. Backing away a few steps, spinning to the window and drawing the curtains wider to allow ghostly light to shine on the man's face. The skin appeared flushed in the faint glow and beads of sweat were illuminated on his forehead, some dripping down to rest in the crook where ear met jaw or ebony hairline. Harry pushed the very top window open ever so slightly to let a slither of cool night air ghost through the room before turning back around fully to watch as the body stilled, the head occasionally lolling from side to side in seeming agitation.

As the figure stilled completely, the sweaty trails evaporating in the chilled breeze, Harry backed out of the room in a state of confusion; intrigue and a distant determination bordering on his mind. He headed down the rickety staircase, sensing his path rather than seeing in the darkness that consumed him as he set foot in his, it has to be said, abnormally arranged hallway. He made his way to a door furthest from the stairs he'd descended and slipped within the room beyond. The thick, oak door barely resisting his gentle goad.

Harry now found himself in the largest room of the house. He stood opposite a vast bay window and from his position could see the scope of the library perfectly. Each wall was lined with mismatched shelves filled to bursting with books of all calibre that he had collected over the years. A rounded table stood to the left of him, four chairs of varying character tucked haphazardly underneath or to the side. A single sofa accompanied by a moth-eaten overthrow was to his right against yet another shelf, the books housed here untouched for such a period of time as to acquire a layer of dust half an inch thick. The only breaks in the brimming bookshelves across from him were for the practical purpose of a small, rotund window and a piece of odd, black canvas torn into a rectangle that hung lopsided in an ornate gold frame. If one looked close enough, they would see faded patterns and runes etched on the cloth-like surface. The dips and swirls of an ancient language inscribed across every inch, so intricately weaved together that they would not be noticed from even a distance of three or four feet. It was towards this oddity that Harry walked with swift steps, disregarding all other adornments to the room. The frame and its occupant his sole focus.

With an exhalation of breath, slow and steady, and the adjustment of his glasses, Harry peered at the foreign lettering, using a finger to locate a particular point to the upper-right hand corner. He traced a vertical line of script murmuring under his breath, his voice resonating more like a hiss as his tongue flicked over the alien syllables.

Synonymous with the final utterance, a gaping hole began to appear in the centre of the canvas as if someone had set alight to the fabric from the other side. The edges curled inwards, into what would have been the wall behind, if it had still been there. Instead, a second, much smaller room could be seen through the ever-growing, burn-like hole. A study. Inhabited by a large desk, swivel chair and lone book shelf that reached to the ceiling (though not quite as amply filled as the others in the library).

After the black fabric had almost entirely disappeared, only a few threads hanging limply from the surrounding gold, Harry lifted the heavy frame by the two bottom corners and slid it down the wall in the direction of the wooden floor with a surprising amount of effort. The sickly aroma of burning paper could be smelt where the frame had been forced along the wall leaving a rectangular shaped gap in the plaster and wallpaper, the blistered edges a crisp, scorched brown.

Harry stepped over the threshold and inside the diminutive room, heading straight for the bookshelf. Disabling many a ward around the tomes he eventually ran his fingers along the tilted spines, dislodging a few in a seemingly random order and stashing them under his arms or on the nearby desk. After he had taken what he needed from the shelf he proceeded to settle himself into the rotating desk seat- that resembled more of a cushy armchair than anything else.

Minutes turned to hours and the morning rays of sunlight were just beginning to brim the tips of the heavy clouds that formed the overcast sky when Potter halted in his musings. His finger left tapping insistently at a paragraph on the page before him he lifted his head in the direction of a stained glass window though not entirely seeing either through it or at the depiction itself. He frowned in thought, his left eye squinting slightly causing his glasses to slide down his nose. It couldn't be… Ron wouldn't… but that would explain…no…ye-

A reverberating slam rung through the house shaking the very walls of his study. The object of his ponderings was now undeniably awake. Taking his time, Harry set the book he had been reading to the side and gathered the remaining volumes in his arms before turning to the shelf and placing them in their corresponding slots. With a sigh he returned to the desk and picked up the remaining book left open there. He folded the top corner to mark his page and closed the tome with a soft thud as he prepared to confront the entity that now resided in his house. Stepping from the room and into the adjoining library Harry kicked back with his foot, his heel making contact with the frame and continued towards the front of the house where the crash had emanated from, admittedly some time ago, as a slick slurping noise sounded behind him.

He halted abruptly at the entrance to the kitchen before doubling back, a hand clasped to his mouth and weighty book clutched tight to his chest. Through the minute gap between swing door and frame he had caught sight of Voldemort standing mere feet away, his gaze intent on a photograph of Hermione and the Weasleys he had taken two or three summers back. He paced back and forth on the Indian rug, a foot landing either side of the covering to strike the hard floorboards that lay underneath with every twist. In his anxiety and rushed pace, the book slid from his sweaty grasp with a violent bang onto the wood. Fumbling to scoop it back into his tired arms, muttering several profanities under his breath, he continued to walk back and forth, though slightly slower before halting completely. Coming to the conclusion that this predicament required action, Harry closed the gap between him and the kitchen in three strides and thrust the swing door open with a little too much gusto.

---

A/N Special update, cos it's been so _long._ I truly am sorry, both about the wait and the lack of action so far, but the main stream story will be kicking in soon, I promise. So, yeh, the longest chapter of mine to date, in any of my fics (even beating _Laughter Much Louder_!). I hope you enjoyed and please review, you persons mean the world to me and the sickly sad life I lead. 

(Little note: chapters 1 & 2 have been retouched though not too significantly. Just thought I ought to let you in on the fact)


	4. Chapter 4

Death and Taxes  
---  
Life's Two Great Certainties  
-4-

**Rating:** Teen (currently)  
**Warnings:** Intended HP/LV (that means slash)  
**Disclaimer:** Everything Harry Potter related belongs to J.K. Rowling unfortunately. But the plot is of my own creation, rubbish as it may be.  
**Beta:** Just lil' ol' me

**A/N** Squees go out to all review-ey people: _Xenia Marvolo_, _cyranothe2nd_, _Dyna_, _Marevas_, _Synne_, and _redbull07_- they are all very much appreciated!!

OOC-ness be be occurring from here on out, and for that I apologise. I don't think it's too bad in this chapter, but you never know…This story will also completely ignore the events of the fifth book and onwards in the majority of aspects… I need various people alive! I will also be killing (or seriously maiming) a few others- don't hurt me- but tis all necessary.

Just so you know, all these events are taking place two days after the eminent battle. So, basically, we've skipped a day. But no worries, we will be revisiting important aspects in either this chapter or the next.

* * *

"Where's Harry?" Sirius snarled, "Tell me!" 

The death eater before him didn't even flinch as spittle coated his nose at the close contact.

"Harry Potter," Sirius repeated, but the death eater merely smirked. His head tilted up towards Sirius' own, held in place by the muddied hand at the front of his robes.

Sirius nearly screamed in anger as he threw the dark-haired man to the ground, blood and mud spattering on his feet as the body made contact with the sparse grass.

Before Sirius could do more than immobilise the defenceless being, he felt a sharp stinging sensation in the middle of his back causing him to reflexively whip around to face his attacker.

"Black!"

Sirius stormed towards the caster, his arm outstretched and his wand pointed directly in the face of the man ahead of him. One word,

"Harry."

Severus Snape seemed to catch the crazed, desperate question hidden in that single utterance and he shook his head, looking straight into darkened blue eyes with sincerity.

"I'm sorry. I saw him-"

The scene shifted, earth browns, reds and depressing greys merging in a wash of ­­­colour before the setting composed itself once again.

The sleeping Sirius watched as his dream self continued to stare blankly at the once-professor in confusion and anger.

"Harry's safe, don't worry," Snape began again, as if nothing had happened, completely unperturbed by the shift in surroundings. And how desperately he wanted to believe him, to take that offered reassurance and believe in it with all his heart, but he couldn't. Not when he knew the truth…

Sirius woke from his delusional state just as suddenly as he had collapsed into it, sitting up sharply. His dream replayed over and over in his head, but the reality was always there to clutch him back. He clenched his eyelids shut once more and clasped his head in his hands in anguish. His chin crinkled slightly in distress as he fought back the bought of tears that he knew had to come, fighting the inevitable lump in his throat.

Rocking slightly and breathing heavily, Sirius attempted to compose himself as footsteps sounded outside his door.

"Sirius?" The question was tentative and gentle.

"I'm awake; I'll be down in a second." Sirius replied, his voice strained but strong enough for the footfalls to retreat back down the creaking staircase, satisfied. Gradually disentangling himself from the mess of thin sheets that adorned his double bed, he swung his legs round to meet the floor. Taking one last deep breath he stood and stripped from his bed clothes, coincidently, the same pair of robes he'd been wearing for two days straight. They were blood spattered and muddied and Sirius couldn't even bring himself to look at his bed sheet and the dirt that would without doubt reside there. Molly would've killed him…if she could…

Barely looking at what he was snatching from the chair by the wardrobe he pulled on trousers and slipped a thin, deep brown cloak around his shoulders, only taking a few extra seconds to ensure his arms were actually placed within the sleeves. This day was to start afresh.

He paused in front of the full length mirror on his way to the door, staring bleakly at his dejected reflection. He had to be strong, for those around him whom he cared for dearly and for those who no longer could.

---

The kitchen was in hushed disarray. With the absence of one Molly Weasley, not even a trace of order could be upheld. Tonks had taken it upon herself to create what could only be dubbed breakfast due to the early hour of the morning for the wretched group that remained within number 12 Grimmauld Place and all Severus could do was sit and watch with a detached stance.

A resounding crash echoed about the once-taciturn kitchen, followed by a muffled wail as the young women was enveloped in a tight embrace by Lupin, segments of yellow-ed china littering the area by their feet. For a few minutes they remained like that, Tonks sobbing into Remus' sweater, her shoulders shaking with each shuddered breath. She mumbled apology after apology as Lupin moved away slightly to collect the broken pieces of plate and transport them to the bin in the corner with a smooth rounding motion of his wand. Ginevra Weasley, now in her early twenties, moved forward to lead the mousey-haired women over to the large oak table, one hand rubbing circles on her back, the other placed reassuringly on her arm, while the werewolf made a discreet lunge for the tilting frying pan as Tonks caught it with her elbow.

The distressed witch slumped in a summoned wooden chair with the aid of Ginny as Lupin finished attending to the meal and distributed it quickly to the waiting persons in the room. But nobody made any motion to tuck in.

Severus looked down his long nose at the dish before him. A lone quarter of charred tomato occupied the majority of the portion and a ration of shrivelled bacon to the right of that amongst a pitiful helping of baked beans in a questionably lumpy sauce. The breakfast was as depleted as its consumers.

The tell-tale clattering of the stairs made entrance to the final figure to join the ensemble that was the kitchen. Black slouched in as if the whole world rested upon his shoulders, his face blotchy and the condition of his hair able to rival Snape's own. His outer robe looked suspiciously like it was inside out. He paused in the mouth of the room before making his way to a free chair near the head of the table. A plate lavished in the same fashion as the others was levitated to the burgundy place mat in front of him, but his eyes remained glazed. Severus had never seen Black turn down even the nastiest of food morsels before now.

Delicately pushing his plate to the centre of the table, Severus placed his hands atop the wood and straightened in his chair, an air of business around him. He gave a soft cough to draw attention to himself before he began,

"Dumbledore wished me to relay a message now everybody is present," he allowed his gaze to sway towards Sirius for a moment before continuing, "I feel he ought to say the majority of this to you personally, however the basics must be covered."

Far from encouraged by the forlorn expressions focused in his direction, Snape shifted uncharacteristically and began to impart what the former headmaster of Hogwarts had said to him minutes before he had departed to resolve subsequent problems at the ministry after the blood-thirsty battle the recent night.

Snape reeled off the points in an unemotional fashion as if it were simply a list of objectives. The first being Albus' sincere apologies for not being there at this crucial time and his pride in the Order's achievements. Then stating the losses to each side, the ferociousness and bravery with which each fought and his dire sympathy for how each and every person must be feeling.

Snape nearly gagged around the sentimental phrasing he was forced to utter and the way it seemed to lift the back-breaking atmosphere that filled the room, if only marginally. He made it his mission for his bored tone to scrape on every nerve presented to him to balance out the sickly words seeping from his thin mouth.

"Now, I have some important news to disclose. As we all know, there were numerous losses to both sides in the battle two nights ago and a select force have been searching the field to deduce the total number from the light-"

Remus seemed to feel the need to stand at this point, and rose from his chair, the legs scraping slightly on the stone floor. Severus sat reluctantly recognising that it probably was a better idea for Lupin to continue with the sensitive subject, it wasn't really his forte. Remus started where Severus left off, having also heard the Auror report earlier that morning.

"I'm sorry to say that many of our suspicions have been confirmed," he said softly, allowing time before continuing for the people seated around the table to think about what he had just said. Severus surveyed the reactions of each tired individual.

"Many missing persons have been recovered, though regretfully not all alive, and it is much clearer now where we stand. We must understand that these people died for our common cause, for the greater good and a better world how ever much it pains us to accept their passing. My condolences, and I'm sure Albus' as well, are with you all through this difficult time, but we must be strong and continue our chosen path."

Remus nodded hesitantly, tears threatening the corners of his eyes, pausing only a moment before sitting back down. The room was plunged into silence once more, most of the breakfast dishes completely untouched.

A sharp click, a gust of wind, another echoing click and footsteps sounding in the hall announced the arrival of Arthur Weasley returning from St. Mungo's. He was here to pick up the boys and then he would leave at once again for the wizarding hospital where lay the comatose form of his wife and gradually recovering son.

Everybody knew that this day would be a long and tiring one, much like its predecessors and a convincing insight of what was to come. They knew that they would indeed have to heed Remus' words, but none seemed ready to truly forget the horrific ideal, if ever, despite the rejoice and relief that they knew would come with time. They had won the battles, they had won the war. The light had triumphed, but that meant nothing without their loved ones. And one in particular. One who truly sacrificed their life for the light throughout their own. One, who, if Remus' statement was to be believed, was dead. One… Harry Potter.

---

The two opposing characters stood face to face in a fierce standoff for what could have been mere seconds or tedious minutes before Harry lowered his eyes and ambled dejectedly over to the kitchen table, too tired to even string a coherent sentence together let alone have a tempered argument with his arch nemesis. He slumped gracelessly into the nearest wooden chair and heaved the book from his lap onto the chipped pine table.

An atmospheric silence hung about the kitchen, but neither uttered a word. Harry being left to his musings, his head supported by his hands at the temples, while Voldemort remained standing near the worktop, his fists clenched in suppressed rage.

_Harry Potter_! Maybe he could have anticipated being held by the ministry in some ironic form of imprisonment in this abnormal residence, or even, some institution in the middle of no-where, but… _Potter_. Where did _he_ come into this?

A systematic mind, what Voldemort prised himself in, his logic. But no reason presented itself to him here and recently there had been very little to speak of… what with his new appearance, this situation… _Potter._

Everything seemed to revolve around the boy, practically any event in his entire life could, in some way or other, lead back to that one single entity. The bane of his existence, one that had to be destroyed, and why not a more perfect time than this? In a house alone with Potter, if only he had his wand…

The dark mutterings of his mind were cut off as suddenly as they had begun, however, when a new bout of pain intruded upon his abused head, though this time the pain did not stop there. Seeming to claw its way down his spine and along the tensed muscles of his arms to the very tips of his long fingers; a tingling like pins and needles prickling the pads as they were forced further into his palms.

Oh, he would enjoy hexing the life out of Potter the moment this vexing pain, that had now reached the disjointed bone of his shin, left his aching body.

---

Harry was in a state of bemused pondering. If he was correct in thinking that the book now lying face-down on the kitchen table held the electric blue spell Ron had cast- limited as the description was- then... this war was over… a callous memory… a garish nightmare… the man in front of him could never pose a threat to wizarding society _ever_ again…

But there was no conformation; so little was known and so much more needed to be determined. Harry _had _to find out more for anything to be certain, but… how?

So many questions buzzed around his tired head. But he knew one thing: Voldemort needed to be kept here, with him, in _his_ house as much as it pained him. He was still dangerous, and with so little information on the curse, Harry had no idea of the true extent of effects, and he would _not_ put other innocent lives at risk.

That single curse held so many implications, so much hope yet so many consequences…

Then the dilemma resurfaced… it couldn't be. How would _Ron_, of all people, have ever been able to get his hands on this spell. It hadn't be used in centuries, apparently banned by the Ministry 300 hundred years previous, Albus Dumbledore himself had ensured its deletion from all records 40 or 50 years ago. And Harry could see why. The single tome Harry had found held only the meagre mention of it, strictly forbidding its use, not even giving the incantation or wand movement, just the appearance, effects and ultimate and inevitable end for any wizard or witch alive. Dark, dark magic. Cruel magic. Even the monster before him would not stoop so low as to… Harry couldn't even bring himself to _think_ it.

He risked a glance at the seething being before him. Harry didn't need leglimency to tell that Voldemort would quite happily destroy him where he sat, whether because of the fact that the man had been attempting to do so for the entire 24 years of Harry's life, or the insistent twitching of his pale right-hand.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Harry said, in what he hoped surfaced as an nonchalant tone from his dry throat, his gaze now back to the dilapidated cover of the book.

Voldemort, who'd been staring avidly just over Harry's left shoulder for the past minute or so turned his, now less fearsome, deep brown eyes, to gaze with a well-constructed, bored expression into Harry's own green irises.

Glancing back Harry felt he would never get used to this strange new appearance of the Dark Lord. The effect was far less threatening than the snake-like visage that had marred the man's features since Harry was 14, 10 years ago, and oddly comical in its irony. Harry couldn't even associate the two differentiating looks, like they weren't the same person... No. Of course they were the same person. This was Voldemort. He could not, and never would, change.

Eventually, Voldemort, in the far more human skin of Riddle, questioned,

"And why is that?"

It was said with as much venom as could be humanely possible in as many as four syllables while still achieving an air of off-handed boredom.

"Shall we say it's in your best interests?" Harry replied, marvelling at the level of maturity he had managed to procure.

This answer didn't seem to impress the Dark Lord any more than Harry's preliminary statement. If anything, it only served to enrage the man further as Harry watched his eyes turn just that shade darker, the rest of his features remaining composed in an indifferent mask.

"Now allow me to give you a little bit of advice, _Potter_," the last word was spat as only his surname could be and Voldemort continued in a sick mockery of an endearing tone, "…for _your_ own best _possible_ interests."

Harry lost some of his new-found nerve, this man was still very much the Voldemort of old, curse or no curse.

"I suggest, _boy_, that you tell me all that you know of this little situation we find ourselves so… irksomely in," the soft voice dipped to a dangerous low.

---

**A/N **You'll find out more about who's dead and alive in more detail in the next chapter.

Any questions feel free to ask.


	5. Chapter 5 part 1

Death and Taxes  
---  
Life's Two Great Certainties  
-5-  
Part 1

**Rating:** Teen (currently)  
**Warnings:** Intended HP/LV (that means slash), slight anti-Dumbles (I like the man and all, but for the purposes of this story… I'm sorry).  
**Disclaimer:** Everything Harry Potter related belongs to J.K. Rowling, unfortunately. But the plot- yes there is one- is mine own.  
**Beta:** None, so I apologise for all mistakes present.

**A/N** I think I've managed to drag this 'day' on for like three chapters already. This chapters a bit jittery, jumping from time to time, mostly marked with a --- aligned to the left and italicised. Harry's first reminiscing actually follows on from the second chapter-ish. I said that the missing day would be accounted for and there it is. Those who haven't read the revised chapters (mainly ch2) I advise that you do, those whom are new, welcome :)

Thank you my four reviewers: _Xenia Marvolo, jinx101_, _RedEyed Wolf-2nd _and _lil-miss-voldie-woldie  
_(Is feeling lonely…)

* * *

Congealed blood stained the man's abdomen, dried brown flecks dusting the cool metallic surface beneath. The beginnings of a scab, encrusted with pus and mud, decorated the breadth of skin just below his ribs. The blood had long since ceased flowing and the skin had already begun to turn a putrid grey shade. An intricate pattern of blue veins blemished the cleansed skin of the torso, neck and face, as well as the base of the overly large stomach, between the near-nonexistent hips, that were left uncovered by the tarpaulin-like sheet that modestly obscured everything from the waist down. 

Ignoring the foul smell that somehow managed to evade the numerous air vents, a very much alive and bearded man surveyed the septic room carefully before delving into the voluminous pocket of his robes for two small vials. One was long and thin, its glass walls holding a single black hair. The second was conical in shape, a strip of rusted aluminium lining the rim and base. A lumpy brown substance, far too stagnant to be named a liquid, resided inside. At random intervals a bubble would slime its way up the smooth side to the misted surface, bursting in an almost slow-motion explosion.

He levered out the cork of this flask with his long, knarled fingers, the thick contents barely shifting as the bottle jerked in his grip before it was placed with a resounding 'ting' open on the cold surface of the autopsy bench. Removing the stopper from the next with a much swifter motion, the man tipped the lone strand of short, ebony hair into his palm. He replaced the tube back within the folds of his robes and diligently picked up the fibre between his index finger and thumb, dropping it into the bubbling potion.

Immediately the substance began to froth and steam violently, its original grey-brown hue giving way to a brilliant emerald green. Smiling to himself, he once again picked the remaining bottle from the table and watched as the contents slowly dipped from side to side. Taking a step towards the end of the bench, he gripped the head of the being, stripped of all humility, and tipped it back hastily. Holding the stubbled chin with one hand, he used his other to locate the man's pointed nose and tug lightly, ironically as one might in order to open the airway in an attempt to save a life, to pour the moribund liquid through the readily parted lips.

He watched the rat-like countenance and waited. And then, as if on cue, the facial features of the repulsive man lying before him began to contort hideously. The visible flax skin appeared to boil, much like the potion itself, as it grew taught and relaxed continuously to form the new body of a much younger and fitter individual. All trace of the overweight, aging man abolished to be replaced by a dark, messy haired youth of no more than 20. The experienced wizard didn't even flinch as these changes took place and the previously prone figure convulsed upon the cool steel.

Then, just as they had started, the reactions ceased abruptly. The corpse motionless once more. The clattering of the table gradually subsided and in the new found silence a series of thuds echoed eerily throughout the room, bounding off each metallic surface and faded cream wall. Someone was approaching the room.

The old man gave one final scan of the room, snatched a seemingly out-of-place, skull-like mask that resided on the side counter, thrust it into his robes along with the now empty vial and made a hasty departure. Reaching the thick metal door in no more than two strides he wrenched it open and stepped into the thankfully fresh air of the corridor.

A petite women with blonde hair, so fine it appeared white, and a freckled, pale face appeared in his line of vision from around the corner. Seemingly startled by his appearance she halted just before him, gazing blankly up at his blue eyes as if in a daze. Her mouth was open slightly like she was about to say something but had forgotten what it was.

"Amerie," he remarked kindly, jolting her from her reverie, "What can I do for you?"

"Er. Yeh. Sorry, Sir," Amerie returned the warm smile reflecting in the twinkling light of those eyes, relaxed by the persona of her old headmaster, "There's a group of Aurors requesting your presence in the reception."

"Ah, thank you," he replied jovially, "I'll be along as soon as possible."

Amerie nodded and stepped back before turning and sweeping back down the hallway, her light-coloured robe clinging to her retreating figure.

One quick glance back at the ominous steel door, large, black cast iron 'AT3' nailed to the front, and he moved to follow the young women to the reception area of 'The Holding'- the building being used to house and deal with the numerous dead bodies accumulated in the battle. Aurors and ministry officials had been working round the clock for three consecutive days to identify and record each individual and their cause of death as well as inform the necessary associates and family members. Even now, bodies were being transported to the various rooms for diagnosis from the field and missing persons were continually being verified- for the better or worse.

Not able to join in the festivities of their victory until all were cleared and their job was done, the staff worked long and hard. It was depressing work, but somebody had to do it.

Entering the small vestibule, the Hogwarts headmaster was greeted with an array of calls. The most prominent,

"Dumbledore, my man," a rather roguish male stepped forward, offering his hand before thinking better of it and returning the grime ridden digits to their previous position clasped behind his back.

"Good morning gentlemen," the man in question greeted the ensemble gathered in the atrium, "I trust you are here for the report?"

"Nothing get's past you," a further spectator commented dryly under his breath. Dumbledore simply smiled in his direction.

The broad shouldered man, a typical embodiment of physical fitness and body building, the complete opposite to the scrawny previously vocal being, spoke once more, seeming not to have heard the monologue beside him.

"Naturally," the good-humoured tone was dropped to be replaced with a more serious and superior manner fitting of his high position. A forlorn expression fixed itself to his weather-beaten features as he continued, "The files have been updated to incorporate the new arrivals, including forename, surname, age, cause of death and a final general statement." A nod from the generously proportioned Auror and a large, bound stack of papers was handed to Dumbledore via a tall women to the man's left clad in the customary, thick uniform cloak.

"I've given 'the box', revised and up-to date, to Joce so you'll have to go through her to check up on the contents," Wycliff, the aforementioned spokes-person of the group, persisted.

Joce was the resident administrator, taking care of all the accounts and affairs of the new-found department. It was her that had compiled the hefty report Dumbledore now held in his hands. But 'the box' was a different matter entirely. It contained all objects of interest from the battle field such as personal possessions of the deceased, dark artefacts recovered on the scene and even various wands in need of closer inspection. From the look the man opposite him was regarding him with, Dumbledore _knew_ that 'the box' would contain the wand of Harry Potter; so carefully discarded that fated day. It couldn't have worked out better. That reminded him…

With an inclination of his head in understanding directed at the head Auror, Wycliff, Dumbledore turned from the man to place the wad of files on the nearby reception desk, conveniently set at chest height. He unbuckled the leather bound sheets and flicked through nonchalantly, a stack of papers at a time. He paused a little further in than the centre, following a line of text near the head of the page entitled with a distinct letter, 'P'.

"Have you spoken recently with Joce about this? The report?" He questioned.

Wycliff swiftly skimmed over those around him, verifying the others responses,

"Not to my knowledge, Dumbledore," he looked curiously at the wizard's profile, "why?"

"Oh, I was just under the impression that Mr Pettigrew's body had not yet been admitted."

The group glanced at one another. Joce had never made a mistake before…

"And," continued Dumbledore thoughtfully, "that a Mr Potter's body was recovered just this morning and yet his details are not here-"

"Come now, you can't expect Joce to keep track of happenings 'just this morning', Sir," Wycliff responded defensively, the topic of Peter Pettigrew dropped from his mind.

"Yes, yes, I quite understand. Elise, may I request your presence over here for a moment."

"You may, Headmaster." A second blonde women, though her hair a much darker shade than Amerie's and with a touch too much rouge applied to her gaunt cheeks, walked briskly over to the main desk. Dismissing the jittery boy she had previously been conversing with.

"Could you make a note to a Miss Joce Cambden," he paused to allow her to summon a square piece of parchment and extravagant quill from her work station, "asking if I may withhold the report for today due to unforeseen circumstances which the Head Auror, Wycliff here, will gladly explain further."

A stab and flick of her quill to mark a full stop, "I'll just go send it," she remarked.

"Thank you, Elise, that would be most helpful."

Smiling briefly at the band of men, subtly ignoring the two women, she sauntered off towards the back offices, ensuring that her hips swayed elegantly with the click of her heels on the stone flags.

"Now that is in order, I bid you gentlemen… and ladies, " he glanced at the grandmother clock on the counter, "good afternoon. There is still much to attend to."

The group dispersed. All except the tall woman who had first given the report to Wycliff. Her voice was gruff when she spoke as if she hadn't used it in a while,

"I trust you know the procedure for altering the documents?"

"Naturally."

The dark haired woman stepped forward as Dumbledore subsequently stepped to the side. An almost uncharacteristic flourish of her wand in the files general direction unlocking the many wards and a quill was in her hand ready to write as Dumbledore dictated.

The quill made no evident marks on the thin parchment as she scribbled incessantly, but the Auror seemed to know what she was doing, prompting the Headmaster at intervals for the details to input into the complicated records.

By that evening the charmed, permanent script of the record of the deceased would harbour a new occupant:

_Mr Harry Potter  
__31 July 1980 - 17 November 2004  
__No immediate family  
__Death by blood loss concurring from fatal wound to lower abdominals dissecting both intestine and lower quartile of stomach  
__Wand recovered at scene  
__Body stored in room AT3 until further notice_

While the original data of one Peter Pettigrew, formerly of 'room AT3', was deleted on accounts of misinterpretation of identity, and the name reinstated on the missing persons list- yet to be found to this day.

---

Harry stormed up the first flight of stairs before clambering with all four limbs up the second in an attempt to reach his room as quickly as possible.

"Just go to hell!" He yelled over his shoulder a few rungs up the rickety steps.

"I'm dragging you with me," was the heated response from the cubic hallway.

If the rantings continued past that Harry didn't hear as he forced his door shut with a resounding slam sure to echo throughout the old building.

He knew he was being immature, but he was in way over his head. He had no other way of dealing with the mad man downstairs, that resided in _his_ house, in _his_ domain, and yet still managed to get under _his _skin. It was torturous. The sooner he found out about this curse, the sooner he felt he could be rid of the being. Moreover, the more he knew of the curse the more he could prepare himself and others for the implications. No more were going to be hurt because of this petty vendetta. Or that's what he told himself anyway, of course the true reason had nothing to do with his inundated curiosity…

Hoping to make as much noise as humanely possible, as a young child might, Harry stomped over to the desk by the far wall, snagging at the half-open, middle drawer with his finger and wrenching it outward with such force that it catapulted to the floor at his feet. A growl of aggravation in his throat, Harry proceeded to rummage through the mass of blemished papers until his searching fingers came across what he was so desperately looking for.

Snatching at the tattered envelope, he hugged it to his chest as he moved to the deteriorated four poster bed in the centre of the room, the headboard pushed up against the wall adjacent to the closed door. The dilapidated furniture had been a house-warming gift from the very person who's hand had written the letter he now held clutched in his hands where he sat on the edge of the bed.

The once-sharp edges were frayed into the individual strands of material used to construct the parchment from the amount of times the letter had been read and reread in this very spot- though the first had been in the two-seater of the lounge room adjacent to the open-plan library. The day after the battle. The day before the cursed creature had risen to plague Harry with further dilemmas his current situation could most certainly do without.

---

_If his limbs had ached the night before it was nothing, or so his numbed mind thought, to the pain now shooting through his hunched back and abnormally placed arms as he stirred from his position at the foot of the arm chair. His cheeks felt stiff with the dried, salty tracks traced by his tears and his head throbbed with the after effects that came with crying. But he uttered no sound as he made to adjust himself and lean back against the armchair he had collapsed against just a few hours previous, staring straight ahead at an oak coffee table in the centre of the group of sofas yet not seeing the distressed wood in the slightest._

_Even the house seemed oddly still as if in respect for his trauma. Where he sat on the Persian-styled rug, no drafts swept across the wooden floor to meet with the thick fabric from under the mismatched patio doors; no ticks or gurglings of water sounded from the decrepit boiler; and no creaking of floorboards wound their way through the three storeys. So silent, mourning a loss it couldn't begin to comprehend; Harry couldn't even comprehend._

_Harry knew nothing of the events that transpired, and maybe were still transpiring on the lone battle field many, many miles away, or so he suspected. Everything, _everyone_, seemed so far away, so distant…_

_A sharp rapping on glass broke the spiral of despair Harry had woven around himself. He glanced up towards the French doors, but there was nothing there. The echoing taps sounded again, they were coming from a window at the far end of the library adjacent to the sitting area he was slouched in. _

_Curiously, Harry drunkenly clambered to his feet and staggered in the hidden window's general direction. It couldn't be…_

_He rounded the bookshelf that hid the rounded glass pane from view. It wasn't… was it?_

_An owl. A mottled brown in colour with splashings of grey underneath the beak and across the wing tips tapped persistently against the window while attempting to maintain a semblance of dignity slipping about the small, icy ledge outside. Harry would have found it comical had it been another time, but for now he was too determined on prising open the stiff lock and grabbing the flustered bird. It gave a shrill, indignant squawk at being treated so roughly, but Harry couldn't care less._

_He snatched at the dampened envelope attached to the owl's leg while the aggravated bird, in turn, nipped incessantly at his fingers as if telling him to be more careful._

_Once Harry'd clumsily untied the letter he whirled around and began to pace absentmindedly, shredding the sealed envelope with fumbling hands. News! _

_He scanned the letter rapidly, searching for the depressant hearsay he just knew it must contain. But, strangely, he found his spirits lifted, remnants of a smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. He felt reassured by the words of a familiar hand, telling him of the events in as many words and he would have happily put the demon inhabiting his first floor bedroom to the back of his mind- had it not been for the constant nagging curiosity that resided in that very same place._

_Harry resigned himself to the library for the remainder of the day satisfied with his knowledge discovered that very morning, he couldn't just sit around and do nothing despite the contents of the letter and what a more perfect opportunity to find out about the curse having been confined in a peculiar form of house arrest which he was all to willing to comply to. _

_But apart from that one single incidence of unadulterated good will, the only downside being that he must heed the advice given, the day passed uneventful and fruitless. Harry scoured his entire library, not the easiest of tasks from the immense number of books he'd collected over his many years of travel, discovery and, of course, inheritance, and found nothing, not even a mention, on the electric blue curse. _

_He had searched everywhere, through every book, tome, document, note, 3 by 3 inch scrap of parchment… _

_Well not everywhere… _

_There was still one final place…_

_Harry squinted at the grandmother clock balanced precariously on a pile of papers where it had been shifted from its previous position atop a huge glossary of wizarding declensions, conjugations and terminology- Harry_ may _have failed to scan through _every _page but as much as he would ever be able to in a single sitting. _

_The ornate smaller hand twisted in the direction of the 1st roman numeral while the larger, more stocky hand pointed halfway between the numerals X and XI: just gone 10 minutes to 1..._

"_Time really does fly when you're having fun," Harry muttered sarkily to himself. But, the time had _literally _slipped by, he'd been working for just under 9 or 10 hours and the pink plush of sunshine Harry had first noticed on his awakening had long since dispersed into day, then dusk, to carry him into the now ungodly hours of the morning. The 'Parsel Room', as Ron had so originally dubbed it on first sight, would have to wait until tomorrow. Harry's curiosity buzz fuelled by the letter had gradually faded along side the number of unturned pages and exhaustion and fatigue welcomed the thought of his bed readily. _

_The 'Parsel Room' held all the tomes unintelligible to most every other human on the planet, all dark and all in the language of the snakes, Harry had kept the room locked up at all times with a further dark artefact, unearthed from the realms of an ancient tomb-like abode in the far south of Greece, set up to guard the entrance from intrusion. The ancient cloth relic still remained largely a mystery to Harry and he was fortunate enough to have even decoded the single password sector imprinted in the only script he recognised on the rough fabric: parsel. But he had persevered and through readings aloud and diligent rearrangement of word order the result was immensely satisfying and served its purpose well, namely to provide a hidden entrance and password system to the side study. The other numerous functions and languages printed on the cloth were still illegible to Harry and had been for past two or so years since Harry had acquired the bewitching relic._

_Harry found himself in the main square-shaped hallway of the house by the time he'd drawn himself away from his thoughts, his feet subconsciously beginning the ascent to the first floor. He knew that he could sleep well tonight, knowing what he knew now. That letter had been a godsend… of sorts._

_Harry trudged up the first flight of stairs, remembering just the other night when he had taken this same route and the burden he had carried, slumped over his shoulders. _

_One step onto the landing, Harry heard a soft, almost piteous, groan coming from the room across from him. He risked a glance inside having no door to block his view. Riddle was lying where Harry had left him the previous night, strewn across the thick quilt, but somehow managing to wrap the threadbare over-throw around his right leg and one arm hooked over his face, obscuring the new features. It was unnerving. Even if this man looked nothing like the Dark Lord of only 30 odd hours ago, it was still shiver-inducingly strange to see the figure lying so vulnerably in Harry's own house._

_Not wanting to bear the wizard a second thought- he had already taken up the entirety of Harry's day- Harry continued towards his own room on the second floor. Meticulously placing his feet on the corresponding steps that reached only half way across the narrow width of the stairs, alternating left and right. One too many times had he started the ascent with the wrong foot and ended up tripping over his crossed legs or literally falling flat. He felt subconsciously for the letter in his near-week-old trouser pocket before reaching the hatch-like opening and clambering through into the cubicle of a second landing. _

_In a stride, he had entered his bedroom and closed the door softly in his wake. He walked over to the furthest wall and the elongated desk standing there. A quick scan of the letter once more before placing it in the safe confines of the middle-drawer. Moving over to a wicker chair in the large, semi-circular alcove, he extracted a pair of worn pyjama pants from the bundle of clothes strewn over the back and arms and threw them over the bed to his left. He then proceeded to tug the two-day old, grey-blue shirt over his head and step from trousers he was certain could now stand alone unaided. Slipping on the soft, drawstring pyjama bottoms he clambered into bed, depositing Voldemort's wand, almost unthinkingly, onto the bedside table. _

_Despite a sense of unnatural contentment in his exhaustion, sleep was hard-pushed in befalling. But eventually, Harry's restless mind died down and he slept with plans for the following day beseeching his dreams. And yet he would not realise the true weight of his so-called burden until a few hours later when he would be rudely awakened... _

---

**A/N** This chapter was so long I decided to post in two parts. It just seemed epic and this looked to me to be the best place to split. The next half, though I actually suspect it's more than that, should be out soon, and trust me it's worth waiting for... SNIPPET!

_Pure rage radiated from his person with every step he took closer to Harry and with speed rivalling that of a striking serpent Harry's spine was crushed awkwardly against the edge of the kitchen unit, five long, pale digits wrapped around his neck. __Clashings of parsel tongue and sharp hisses of human speech filled the room as Harry's windpipe was forcefully compressed under the vice like grip... __His hands grappled at the cold fingers pressing down, suffocating him... __His feet must have been at least a foot off the ground, the edge of the counter he had been previously leaning against cutting into his arched back. _

Want more? Review!

Any questions, or want anything explained, please, feel free to ask. Any explanations will either be posted in the next chapter or put up on my profile along with updates on my life, this fic and others.

Although this is on my profile, I have to stress here as well just how sorry I am for the huge delay in updating. Why is detailed, as I said, on my profile but I am really, really sorry. It's been over two months. Forgive me, please? Hopefully, this, what is to be a major update for me, will make up for it.


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